


And These Walls Keep Tumbling Down

by BigSciencyBrain



Series: Solace [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Attempted retcon, Loki doesn't care, Loki has wings, Loki is a mess, M/M, Neither does Steve, None of this is healthy, Sometimes Steve brings the attitude, These two make me crazy, this fic is not a sex ed lesson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigSciencyBrain/pseuds/BigSciencyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki continues to live in hiding on Midgard, but his loneliness drives him to seek out other monsters like him.  And Captain America keeps turning up in the most unexpected places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And These Walls Keep Tumbling Down

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first piece of this before Thor: The Dark World came out, so there is a little bit of tap-dancing to try to get all the pieces to fit together now.

Loki expects his name to be revealed, but the Captain keeps his secret and SHIELD remains unaware of his true identity. 

Instead, the Avengers christen him Shadowfax. 

Loki makes note of it in one of his books. His new collection is discreet; there are no pictures or newspapers scattered over the walls. Everything he collects is safely kept within a set of books bound in dark leather. He is less concerned with obsessively gathering raw information this time. Much as the Captain uses his sketchbooks, Loki’s notes are his own thoughts and observations of the world around him. 

It has been days – or nights – since he ventured near Stark Tower.

The nervousness that jitters at the pit of his stomach spreads to the tips of his fingers and the tips of his wings as he flies closer, keeping far above the lights of the city and all but invisible against the black night. He looks for the Captain and sees that he is on the balcony of Stark Tower; he is not alone.

Loki almost turns away.

But this is a moment he cannot avoid forever, so he pulls the shadows in tighter around him and descends in lazy circles. When he lands, he keeps his wings open and ready to take flight at a moment’s notice. The Captain’s expression is unreadable. As Loki steps closer, he realizes the Captain is holding his breath.

Thor is the first to speak. “Captain Rogers says that you may have word of my brother. He is known to this Realm as Loki.”

Loki stops. The Captain’s face remains impassive, except for the way his eyes search the shadows. Loki remains silent. Suddenly and acutely aware of his deformity, he pulls his wings in tighter to his sides and back.

How Thor would laugh if he knew the truth.

With a glance toward the Captain, Thor takes a short step forward. “I wish only to tell him that our father has forbidden his return to Asgard, on pain of death should he attempt to go back.”

Surprise registers on the Captain’s face; he had not known that there was a death sentence on Loki’s head should he return to Asgard. Loki is not surprised and the sting of it is slight; his feelings for Asgard – _home_ – and the others – _family_ – are long since buried. 

“As long as my brother does not seek to harm anyone, the information does not need to be given to SHIELD or to Asgard. It is only I who wishes to know. If you learn of my brother’s fate, will you tell me?” Again, he glances sidelong at the Captain, clearly wondering how someone who cannot speak would be able to provide any information at all.

Loki wonders. It is clear that conditions were given and promises made between the Captain and Thor prior to their meeting him on the balcony. Finally, he nods once.

Thor nods in return. “I am in your debt.”

Bitterness at the back of his throat makes Loki swallow. There are biting words, cruel and hateful words, that bubble up inside and churn against his tongue and teeth. 

The Captain’s demeanor changes almost instantly; he tenses and moves forward, holding out his right arm as a barrier between Loki and Thor. Loki realizes that, in his anger, the feathers of his wings have turned solid and sharp. Splayed out at his sides, they are dagger edges tipped silver and gleaming in the moonlight. It takes conscious effort to relax. He shakes his wings, a rolling motion spreading out from his shoulders, and they are once again silken and black.

Unexpectedly, Thor begins to retreat and the sounds of his boot steps are swallowed up with him when he returns to the interior of the tower. The Captain remains. There is uncertainty in his eyes, tension in his shoulders. He remains warily silent, waiting for a reaction.

Loki turns and leaps from the edge of the balcony. He tells himself that he will never again return to Stark Tower.

He knows that is a lie.

**

Steve doesn’t sleep that night. 

There is too much to think about. He begins to wonder if he made the wrong call. It had only been a guess – in hindsight, perhaps an educated one – that the mystery with black wings was Loki. Now he knows how one of his sketchbooks went missing and how it seemed that someone could walk about, unseen, in Stark Tower. 

But he doesn’t know why.

There are other things that don’t make sense. Loki has helped them rather than seek vengeance as Thor had feared. And it was Thanos who sent Loki to Midgard; Thanos, who had been more powerful than Steve could wrap his mind around and who they could not have defeated without Loki’s intervention. Later, Thor remembered that Loki had spoken of another, but had offered no information. What matters is that Loki had not been acting alone the first time he came to Earth; that changes everything about what happened in New York. Steve isn’t sure exactly _how_ , but he knows that it does.

Loki has wings.

Steve is certain Thor doesn’t know anything about the wings. Loki had pulled them in tight around him once his mask fell away, trying to minimize them, and the expression of shame hadn’t been fleeting enough that Steve didn’t see it. 

Loki’s voice had been rough, coming out like broken shards of words. Steve wonders how long he’s been alone with no one to talk to.

Unable to sleep, he clears the longest wall of his room and asks JARVIS where he can find paint at that late hour. With JARVIS’ guidance and a promise to come as Captain America to a little girl’s birthday party that Saturday, he ends up with a stack of gallon tins and a pile of brushes. JARVIS insists that he put down painter’s cloth over the carpet and the furniture.

He paints.

He paints Loki, larger than life, in a crouch with his head bowed, black hair falling down to obscure his face, and his arms crossed in front of him, fists clenched tight. This is a different Loki than the one who came to conquer. This Loki is wrapped in silence and shadows; he is hiding. Steve paints him barefoot, in jeans and a t-shirt rather than his Asgardian armor; they seem to suit him better now. Sweeping up and out from his back, Steve paints enormous black wings kissed by the moon and by starlight. Those, he paints stretched wide; open, proud, and glorious. He fills in the background with an abstract New York City made of shapes and lights, with the night sky spinning out above, like a Van Gogh.

It is almost morning when he finishes and sits back, surrounded by open gallons of paint, to see his work. Dawn is spreading warm honey light over the room. 

He realizes that he’s covered with flecks and splashes of color and pads into the bathroom to get clean. He stands under the water until all of the paint is scrubbed away. Sweat pants and a t-shirt are enough to sleep in. He’d pulled the bed away from the wall; it sits askew in the center of the room now. He moves it so that he can lie facing the painting and watches the sunlight spread up the wall. The light brings out the subtler colors that he used to give depth and dimension to the black wings. 

In his sleep deprived state, he can imagine the painting of Loki lifting its head and standing up with those great wings stirring the air around him

Beautiful, Steve thinks as he closes his eyes.

**

Steve finds excuses to seek high ground; rooftops, balconies, and bridges. He spends so much time looking up into the night sky, watching for Loki, that the others have noticed.

Unsurprisingly, Tony is the first to say anything. “Am I crazy or are you pining for your mysterious winged boyfriend?”

He’s learned not to take the bait that Tony dangles in front of him and doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to the next page of the newspaper; he’s not ready to give up the feel of the paper and convert to a Stark tablet. 

“Have you guys done it in the air? Because I have always been curious about how that would work…if you wanted to.” Tony’s eyebrows raise as he thinks about it. “Is that even possible? He’d have to be on top, obviously.”

“Tony,” Steve interrupts before he can really get going. “If you’re lonely and feel like talking to someone, you can take tonight’s shift.”

Tony scoffs. “Me? I’m hardly ambassador material. Pretty sure Fury wants the X-Men to actually like the Avengers. You know, play nicely in the sandbox. And you’re the one who has history with angry claw-boy.”

“Don’t let Logan hear you call him that,” Steve says with a wince.

“Exactly. This is why Fury sends you.” Tony waves it off, turning away to head back to whatever he was doing before he got bored enough to annoy Steve. “Go. Kiss babies, shake hands. Whatever it is you do in mutant-town.”

“Freetown,” Steve corrects patiently.

“Whatever.” Then Tony is gone and silence returns.

Despite Steve’s attempts to refocus on the article he’d been reading, the newspaper isn’t as interesting as it was before Tony waltzed in with inappropriate questions. Trust Tony Stark to turn everything into sex. Steve doesn’t think – hasn’t thought – about sex when he flies with Loki. He thinks about holding on, about the rush of air and the way his stomach clenches with each beat of black wings. But it’s not, it isn’t –

He gives up and folds up the paper. 

A nice, long motorcycle ride is exactly what he needs. He glances at the clock as he gets up. It only takes a few minutes to change clothes; he needs sturdier shoes and his leather jacket for riding. His motorcycle is in the underground parking beneath the tower and he manages to avoid Tony on the way down. Late afternoon is hot and humid in New York; he’s glad to turn the bike west and head out of the city. Once he’s left the noise and traffic behind, he feels his muscles begin to relax. 

A flock of geese fly overhead, making their way to water and a cooler clime.

The sun is setting when he leaves the main road behind. Clouds of dust churn up behind him and he has to slow to a crawl, maneuvering around deep ruts in the dirt road. He makes his way slowly across farmland to an old, red barn where he leaves his bike and continues on foot. A wide pasture leads to a meandering river and thick stands of river willows.

Freetown is a place of comings and goings; a sanctuary for mutants and normals alike, anyone who needs a warm meal and a place to sleep. No questions asked, no answers needed. They protect their location and their secrecy; Steve has been granted limited access as a liaison from SHIELD in an effort to build better ties with the mutant community. He welcomes the opportunity and enjoys meeting new people, even if it’s only a few hours once a month.

A bonfire, becoming brighter and brighter as night falls, catches his eye as he gets closer. There are tents, many large enough to hold groups of people, set about with fires dotted between them. He sees horses and other motorcycles, as well as paths worn by hundreds of footsteps. He’s been watched, probably followed, since he left his bike; that’s part of the deal. On the breeze, he catches the scents of bread and roasting meat, as well as the sounds of music and laughter. He’ll never admit to Fury that part of him feels more at home here than in Stark Tower where everyone thinks he belongs.

Hands in the pockets of his jacket, he’s smiling as he leaves the shadows behind and steps into the warmth of firelight. It feels like an invisible boundary has been crossed and now he’s in a world where the noise and frantic pace of New York City is far away.

He follows the music, nodding and greeting familiar faces as he goes. As with every other time he’s been to Freetown, he’s struck by how many children are playing around the tents. Many of them are orphans, cobbling together their own version of a family here in the relative safety and protection of the X-Men. They are laughing and playing, so he only smiles as they dash by him. 

In the central gathering area, the night’s bonfire is blazing. Around it are groups of people dancing, eating, or enjoying each other’s company. He’s only there for a few moments before Cheryl catches sight of him and waves him over. Her skin is golden and covered with half-moon scales, with thick ridges on the backs of her arms and over her brows. She meets him with a wide smile and a plate piled high with roasted vegetables and sliced ham. If Freetown had a single mother watching over all its children, it would be Cheryl.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” she says. It’s how she greets him every time he visits.

“Beautiful.” Steve accepts the plate and tries to blend in, staying out of the way of others milling about the space. “How’s the family?”

“Robby found a good job in Virginia. He and Mamie left this morning.” Her eyes move constantly, following the darting children and adults alike. “A couple new faces. One of them, I hear through the grapevine that you’ve already met. None of us have been able to get him to open up. Maybe you're my lucky charm.”

Steve swallows down a mouthful of vegetables. He can taste potato and carrot, doused in a rich, savory broth that makes his mouth water even as he’s eating. “If anyone can get through to someone, it’ll be you Cheryl.”

She swats his arm playfully. “Flattery is beneath you, Rogers.”

He doesn’t think much of it, his focus mostly on getting the rest of the food into his mouth as he follows her. There’s a wide opening leading out into a field where several smaller bonfires have been lit. The earth has been stamped smooth beneath his feet and the music is louder. In a tent along the side of the field, the musicians are pouring music out into the night from fiddles, guitars, and an assortment of less conventional instruments.

“I’m hoping to get him to trust us enough to take off the mask,” Cheryl says.

Steve looks up, following her gaze, and he nearly chokes. 

The figure cloaked in black, with great black wings rising out of his back, is unmistakable. Still, Steve can hardly believe his eyes. Lit by firelight and moonlight, Loki is dancing. Every moment is graceful and uninhibited; he whirls and spins and his wings are as much a part of the dance as his legs and arms. There is joy, simple and pure, in the way he moves; Steve sees none of the self-conscious stiffness that he is used to seeing in Loki. 

He keeps his distance as he finishes the plate of food, trying to decide on his course of action. He doesn’t know what it means that Loki has found Freetown, but he knows it’s important. As far as he knew, Loki had been utterly alone since returning to Earth. There’s a strange ache in his chest as he considers that Loki himself must feel that he is an outcast without friends or family, unable to return home without facing execution. He has no desire to disturb whatever piece of home Loki might have found here. As he watches Loki pivot, wings tilting and slicing through the air, he hears Tony’s words in his ears again and tells himself the heat in his throat and face is from the fire.

If Loki knows that Steve has found him, will he disappear into solitude again? Here, at least, he is not alone.

The music fades and cheers of appreciation for the musicians erupt. He sees Loki move deftly to the edge of the firelight, but it looks more like an unconscious motion to prevent anyone or anything from getting caught in his wings than a desire to keep his distance from the others.

Steve can’t risk revealing himself and driving Loki away from a place that has offered him both home and family. He pretends not to notice the question in Cheryl’s eyes when she takes his plate from his hands; he’s done nothing but watch Loki. Scanning the field, he looks for a place where he might be able to watch without being seen. There’s a patch of shadow beside the musicians’ tent that will hide him while still allowing him a view of Loki.

It is no more than halfway through the next song, with a bouncing rhythm that has him swaying in time despite his resolve not to be pulled into the dancing, that two of the younger girls see him. They are two of Cheryl’s favorites, Libby and Abby, and they swoop in on him like lovely, but fierce birds.

Libby grabs one of his hands while Abby takes the other. They speak in unison. “Come dance with us, Captain Rogers!” 

“No, no, really. I don’t know how to dance. I’m no good at it.”

Libby giggles, refusing to give up. “It’s not hard. We’ll show you.”

He wants to retreat back into the shadow before Loki can see him. Trying to extract himself as gently as possible from the two girls, he looks up to see Loki standing still, watching, and he feels the moment their eyes meet. 

Loki doesn’t fly away; he stands still, waiting.

Swallowing, Steve stops. Neither of them move. He can no longer hide or pretend that he isn’t here, that he doesn’t knows Loki is here. That leaves him only one choice to make.

The girls cheer with excitement as he strips off the leather jacket and his boots, tossing them to the edge where there is still grass that hasn’t been trampled into the earth. All of the others are barefoot, their skin coated with the rich dust, and he would only hurt someone if he kept his boots on. The dirt is surprisingly smooth and cool against his skin. He lets the two girls pull him into the chaos of the field, trying not to bump into anyone. Loki has moved to the edge again, no longer dancing. Steve regrets his decision to stay immediately, preferring that Loki had remained unaware and enjoying the festivities.

Libby and Abby try to teach him. He follows their instructions, mimicking their movements clumsily as he tries to watch Loki at the same time.

He loses sight of Loki for a moment and stops, searching the crowd for black wings.

A hand settles on his arm, just lightly and for a moment. When he turns, Loki is standing beside him. With the black mask over his face, he is expressionless, but the way he tips his head reminds Steve of a quizzical bird.

“I told them I wasn’t any good,” he says with a self-conscious laugh.

Loki shakes his head a little, a wordless disapproval of Steve’s dancing, and the two girls giggle again. Then he sets himself directly even with Steve, motioning for him to watch. He makes a series of steps, dust rising up around his feet with each one. He repeats the steps again and then waits. Steve can only stare when he realizes that Loki is attempting to teach him to dance. His heartbeat skips and picks up its pace as he makes his own steps, following the pattern of what Loki had done. It is satisfactory, apparently, as Loki then steps through another series. He keeps the patterns short, five or six steps, and once Steve has begun to get used to the rhythm of the music, he stops repeating them and trusts Steve to master them after one example. 

There is a quality to the patterned steps that reminds Steve more of battle than dancing, the way he learns to move his weight from one foot to another, and that, he can do. The fluidity in Loki’s motion makes him wonder if he is teaching Steve something from his home, from Asgard. Focused on his movements, Steve barely recognizes when one song has ended and another begins. He finishes a set of quick, side steps and can’t keep a grin from spreading over his face when he looks to Loki for the next.

Loki reaches out a hand, clad in black, and taps a finger against Steve’s chest. Then he takes a step back, glancing around as he adjusts his wings. People move out of the way, but don’t seem to mind. When Loki moves again, he is so fast that Steve sucks in a breath, holding it without thinking. The steps are the same, Steve sees the pattern repeat itself, but Loki adds leaps and spins as he goes.

If Thor could see this, Steve thinks. But then again, if anyone already knows how beautiful and graceful Loki is when he dances, it’s probably Thor.

It feels expected, so Steve finally exhales and does his best to follow. He feels awkward and the feeling only heightens when he realizes that they’ve drawn an audience. People aren’t just moving to get out of the way of Loki’s wings, they’re stopping to watch. Steve can feel their attention weighing on him. It’s more than dancing now, as his every action here in Freetown is measured and weighed and all of the Avengers are judged. He’d reached out to Loki to show him that he wasn’t alone; he’d agreed to come to Freetown to show them that they weren’t alone.

For a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut to drown out everything but the music. Dancing barefoot in a field isn’t something Captain America would do. It’s not even something Steve Rogers would do. That means he is absolutely going to do it.

He isn’t as graceful as Loki, but the first time he leaps into the air, he _understands_. It’s the same feeling he gets when he’s racing across rooftops, jumping from building to building; the same feeling he gets when he jumps from the back of a Quinjet. It’s movement and the racing of his heart and moments of pure freedom. 

It’s the way he feels when he flies with Loki.

He loses himself in the music, barely registering that the crowd around them has begun to clap in time with the music. Dust churns up around his feet for only a moment before he is back into the air, leaping and spinning; sweat drips down his throat and back. He feels wind rush against his skin from the beat of great wings as Loki whirls beside him. If he had breath enough to laugh, he would, but he can only keep moving. When he sees Loki land, wings spread back in a way that makes him look fierce and terrible, he makes one last leap and lands in front of Loki. A moment later, the music stops and the crowd around them roars.

Steve is grinning and panting when Loki straightens. His grin spreads wider when Loki starts toward him; he knows what’s coming next.

They fit together as though meant for it. 

There’s a moment, as Steve’s arms circle around Loki’s shoulders, that he half expects Loki to kiss him. His throat catches as the soft, coolness of Loki’s mask brushes against his cheek instead; a sharp pang of disappointment lances through him. Before he can wrap his thoughts around that, he feels Loki tense, bending his knees just slightly. Then they’re off the ground and pushing up into the sky.

Steve can feel and hear the pounding of Loki’s heart. As they level out, Steve hooks his heels against the back of Loki’s calves. They’d found this position through trial and error. With each beat of Loki’s wings, their bodies press and slide together. He swallows a groan, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Damn Tony for making him think, making him wonder…

The air this high up is cold, cooling his body down rapidly, and Steve is grateful for it.

Their flight is short, just enough for the sweat to cool on their skin and for Steve’s heartbeat to resume its normal pace. He wonders if that was Loki’s intention or if he had simply needed to escape the attention of the others. They’ve barely landed when Cheryl hands them both heavy mugs of rich cider and reminds them that there is more food.

It is well through the night and dawn will be coming soon. Steve feels both strange and at home when he settles down beside Loki on a bale of hay, a fresh plate of vegetables and ham in his hands. They eat in silence and it feels comfortable.

While he is saying his goodbyes, Loki slips away, but there is a gleam of triumph in Cheryl’s eyes when she tells Steve not to stay away so long next time.

His thoughts are far away as he makes his way back to the barn where his bike is and he has to remind himself to focus again and again. Light is just beginning to paint the eastern sky when he reaches asphalt and turns toward New York. There will already be traffic in the city and he finds himself already missing the peace of the countryside. As he rides, he looks up, partly out of habit and partly to divert his thoughts.

Above him, he sees the silhouette of black wings against the sky and he smiles.

**

It is a dream, gone hazy and patchwork when Loki wakes, that rouses him from his careful routine. He remembers clearly that he dreamt of falling from the Bifrost – it is the subject of his dreams often enough – but this time, it is the Captain reaching out for him instead of Thor. In the dream, he does not want to let go, but he cannot keep his grip and falls away into the void once again. He is swallowed up, nameless and faceless, and there is nothing left of Loki to be remembered.

Even on Midgard, the memory of him is fading; his name swept aside as other stories play out. The Mandarin rises and Iron Man defeats him; Loki watches others’ lives play out on the news reports. He accepts the silence and anonymity of the shadow; this is his true punishment. Odin’s gilded cage is little compared to feeling himself devoured by nothingness; his face, name, and identity are being erased by inches.

There is no Loki now, not of Asgard nor of any other Realm.

One of the late-night shows flashes pictures of Captain America and a blond woman, speculating about an evening spent at a local restaurant. In every picture, the Captain has one arm raised as though trying to shield himself and the woman from the cameras.

A twist in Loki’s gut, like a sliver of ice inside him, makes him silence the television.

He thinks of the night the Captain came to Freetown. While the Captain didn’t have the grace of a dancer, his motions were flawlessly efficient and possessed their own kind of beauty. He’d been struck with the sheer athleticism and how the Captain’s skin turned golden in the firelight. Loki had wanted nothing more than to simply stop and watch, mesmerized. 

He’d _wanted_. Wanted to know if the Captain’s skin would taste of gold and fire; wanted to see those muscles tense and strain against something other than gravity.

He still wants. The images refuse to leave his mind, creeping in again and again after he has cast them out. 

He tolerates Freetown because they do not question and do not care who or what he was. It is a place where the noise is solace instead of hell, for the times when he can no longer stand the deafening silence of his existence. He had wanted to get away from the city, away from the Avengers, away from the biting at his heels and all the reminders of the Loki who once was. If he had known the Captain would come – _of course_ the Captain visited a place where Midgard’s outcasts could feel safe – he would not have sought out Freetown. 

Even flying does little to ease the nagging restlessness. 

He has avoided Stark Tower for weeks; he wants nothing to do with Thor. Instead, he flies away from the city and out over the harbor. City sounds fade away until there is nothing loud enough to reach his ears over the beat of his wings against the air. He pushes upward into the starlight, trying to leave behind the thoughts biting at his mind.

Hours later, he sees a darkness against the water; a place where there should be the reflection of the moon scattered over the waves. Curiosity pricks at him. He drifts into an angle and studies the dark shape as he descends. Closer, he sees smaller shapes moving through the water. They are dark as well, but moving steadily. Boats, he realizes, converging on a much larger craft. Circling, he watches the events unfold far below. There are bright flashes, like tiny pinpricks, that are bullets firing. Men swarm from the boats onto the craft, like ants crawling up over the sides and spilling over the surface.

An explosion lights up the forward deck of the ship and a spinning disk is lit up in the burning gold and red. At his distance it looks like a child’s toy, brightly painted in red, white, and blue.

He sees no signs of any of the other Avengers.

Once the gunfire and explosions cease, lights begin to come alive onboard the larger vessel and Loki sees now that it is a cargo ship heavy laden with shipping containers. Engines stir and come to life like an enormous beast beneath the water; slowly the freighter turns toward the harbor. The small boats break away, following alongside in escort. He drifts low enough to make out the Captain and to hear words snatched up by the wind.

The Black Widow is there as well, moving in step with the Captain.

“What about the nurse?” the spider asks.

“She didn’t like the cameras.” The Captain’s attention is on the containers. He raps each one as he passes, listening intently.

“Maybe you should try an actress? They’re already used to paparazzi.”

The Captain sighs, simply moving on to the next container. He stops, something catching his attention, and looks up. Frowning into the darkness, he searches the sky above.

Loki doesn’t know how the Captain detected his presence; perhaps a brush of wind from the wrong direction or the beat of wings against the air. He descends the last distance to land on top of the stacked containers, looking down at the Captain. Romanoff’s right hand moves to the weapon at her side.

“There are women and children trapped in one of these containers,” the Captain says without preamble. “I need to find them. There could be injured or sick among them; they need help.”

“Steve,” Black Widow begins. She doesn’t take her eyes off of Loki for even an instant.

Loki considers the situation. He has no doubt that the Captain will search every container, no matter how long it takes. Gracefully, he leaps down to the deck. He moves to a container that the Captain has not yet checked and makes a show of knocking against the metal. As he pretends to listen, he presses his right palm against the door and feels inside the container with magic rather than relying on his physical senses. Within the walls, there is no pulse or breath of life. He moves to the next. 

There is a strange, small smile on the Captain’s lips when he glances back.

He moves quickly, flying up to the higher levels and checking those containers as well. Movement catches his attention; he stops for several seconds to watch the Captain climb and leap lithely from container to container. When the Captain is not looking, Loki checks those containers a second time.

“Steve already checked that one.” Black Widow’s voice is cold. Loki does not have to turn around to know that there is a gun pointed at him.

He pulls his palm away and moves to the next container without reacting to her intrusion.

“What do you want with Steve?”

Another container devoid of life. He continues down the row. His palm and ear are against the cool metal when she closes in, pressing the barrel of her gun against his temple to emphasis the urgency of her questions. He goes completely still.

“What do you want with Steve,” she repeats, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He could kill her; though not easy, it would not be difficult either. He considers that. He also considers the possibility that her loyal Hawk is perched somewhere in the shadows, watching over her. Disarming her, even if he did not harm her, could end with an arrow sticking out of his back. He suppresses a sigh of annoyance. With a twist that is too fast for her to see, he catches her wrist. To her credit, the gun does not fire as he pulls her arm behind her back, yanking her between him and the most likely place for an errant archer to be. He is faster than Barton; his left hand catches the arrow moments before it would have buried itself in his throat. He turns the point toward Romanoff’s face, keeping the Hawk at bay with an unspoken threat. 

“We will find out who you are,” she hisses under her breath.

Suddenly weary, he lets her go and takes a step back. Using the arrow, he scrapes the tip against the container door to cut an X-shaped pattern in the paint. Its terrified occupants remain silent and huddled together in its darkness. He discards the arrow carelessly.

Before the Black Widow can strike again, the Captain’s voice cuts through the silence. “X marks the spot.” He drops down from the next row of containers. “Natasha, go find some bolt cutters.”

“Steve-”

“Those people have been in there long enough.” The Captain’s tone of voice leaves no room for argument and she leaves. 

After a moment, there is the subtle sound of boot tread against metal and Loki knows that the Hawk has also crept away. He feels awkward and exposed under the lights of the cargo vessel. The weight of the Captain’s gaze does nothing to ease his awkwardness. He retreats to the top of the container stack, where there is less light, and perches on its edge. But he stays. The Black Widow returns with more SHIELD agents and bolt cutters. When the container is opened, more than a dozen dirty, hungry, and frightened women and children are shepherded toward help.

The sliver of ice twists once again in his gut; he doesn’t understand what it means. He turns away from the edge and is halfway down the length of the container, his wings spread for takeoff, when he hears the Captain speak.

“Hey, wait up.” The Captain pulls himself up over the edge of the container with ease. He adjusts the placement of the shield on his back as he stands. “Think I could get a ride home?”

Loki stares at him for a moment. The strange, small smile has returned and Loki doesn’t know what it means either.

The Captain knows who _Loki_ was and still, he smiles.

It feels natural, almost frighteningly so, for Loki to catch the Captain in his arms and lift them into the air. The night is cool and the air is heavy laden with salt spray from the ocean. He climbs higher than necessary and stays in the air longer than he needs to, letting the winds carry them where they will. The Captain’s arms are around his neck and shoulders; the heels of his boots are locked against the back of Loki’s calves.

He is loath to return to Stark Tower. Suddenly the city is too bright and too loud and he wants nothing more than silence and darkness.

The void reaches out; he can feel the nothingness dig into his skin and claw for his very soul.

“Land on the roof,” the Captain shouts as they near the familiar beacon, his voice muffled by the wind.

Loki bypasses the usual landing spot and focuses on the narrow space where Selvig had mounted the Tesseract. In the lights from the city, he sees a wooden lounge chair and a small bench as he lands. He is acutely aware of the long moment before the Captain releases his hold.

“I come up here sometimes,” the Captain explains, motioning to the plain furniture. “To look at the stars. You can’t see many of them anymore. There were more before…before the ice.”

Loki simply nods. He feels both too little and too much to know what his reaction should be. All at once, he feels restless and weary, angry and sad; everything swirling together into a brewing chaos within the empty place where his heart used to be. He wants to see the Captain bathed in firelight again, a sheen of sweat glistening over his skin. He wants to find a way to blot out the cacophony of thoughts and emotions; he wishes to feel nothing and to be left alone. 

All he feels is chaos.

“I need some answers,” the Captain says finally. His eyes move quickly, never resting in one spot for more than a moment as he waits for something.

Loki lets the shadows fall away; they slither down his body and pool like black fog around his feet. They are protected from the view of anyone within the Tower and he can conjure the disguise quickly enough if they should be discovered. 

“Then ask,” he says. He finds it uncomfortable to be there; in the place where the Tesseract tore a rift in space and time.

“Why did you save my life?” 

It isn’t the question that he expects. He thinks on the answer. In the silence, he takes a seat on the narrow bench, looking at everything but the Captain. When he finally answers, the words feel leaden on his tongue. But they are true; perhaps more truth than he is ready to reveal. “You saw me. As something…other…than what I was.”

The Captain’s brow furrows. “And helping us defeat Thanos?”

“He is not defeated, only delayed.” The threat of Thanos is an ever present bite at his back. For the first time, he wonders if he should flee from Midgard and draw Thanos and his forces away from a Realm that has little hope of victory.

“What about Thor?”

That is a question too far. Loki looks away. “Would you have allowed Crossbones to kill you?”

The Captain is taken aback, clearly, and remains silent for some time. Finally, he sits down on the deck chair and laces his fingers loosely together, looking at the space between his feet rather than at Loki. “I don’t know. None of the others noticed, but you did. You saw me as something other than Captain America.” His voice is laced with amusement that is equal parts good-natured and bitter.

“Is that the extent of your questions?”

“Not even close. But you could’ve killed Natasha tonight and you didn’t. And you helped us find those people. That’s enough for now.” 

Loki lets the far away sounds of traffic fill the space between them, his thoughts still tumbling. “How did you know who I was?”

“I guessed,” the Captain answers. “In everything you collected about us and about our enemies, there was nothing about you. I figured the only reason someone wouldn’t have anything about you was if they already knew everything.”

Loki tries not to imagine what SHIELD would do if they were aware of their Captain’s company. “What now?” 

“Like Thor said, as long as you don’t hurt anyone, SHIELD doesn’t have to know. Neither does Asgard.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “You’ve helped us, I can’t pretend you haven’t. But I can’t pretend you aren’t an enemy of SHIELD either. Call it a truce. I’ll hold my end as long as you hold yours.”

Loki stiffens. He has no answer to give.

The Captain meets his gaze, blue eyes searching. “Why come back to Earth? If you tell me, if you explain, I’ll listen.”

To his surprise, Loki begins to speak. He starts at Thor’s aborted coronation. He speaks of Jotunheim and Frost Giants and the moment in the vault when he thought he had caused Odin’s death. The Captain does not speak as Loki describes how he manipulated and murdered Laufey, his true father, and attempted to murder Thor. It takes him several minutes of silence before he is able to tell the Captain about his fall from the Bifrost, how Thanos and the Other found him, and what brought him to Midgard with the scepter in his hands and bloodlust in his heart. He speaks of his prison and of the pain as his wings were born from his flesh. His words are filled with horror and hatred and self-loathing.

The sky has lightened and the stars are disappearing when he finishes.

“Loki,” the Captain begins hesitantly. The sound of his name feels as intimate as a caress. He finds that he aches to hear it come from the Captain’s lips again. He is desperate to feel something – anything – other than the emptiness where his heart used to be and the nothingness of the void. 

“I want to help you.” The sincerity in the Captain’s voice cuts like a knife. 

“Say my name,” he whispers.

“Loki.”

He is vibrating with want and need and the desire to feel the Captain’s touch; to dig his fingertips into skin and muscle and to hear that voice wash over his skin as though it could wash away the black and the blood and everything that is wrong about who _Loki_ is.

“Loki,” the Captain says a third time. “I’m just as lost as you are.”

The admission surprises Loki, catching him off guard. He is silent for a long time before he gathers his thoughts together. “Why do you draw me?”

Looking down, the Captain laces his fingers together between his knees. His voice is low when he speaks, almost too quiet for Loki to hear. “I don’t know if I can explain. Sketching was supposed to help with the dreams. Nightmares, really. Help me adjust to all this.” He motions vaguely to the city around them. “You were the one I saw most clearly. And then, the more I drew you, the more I wanted to. The angles, the way you move. Watching you dance at Freetown. You’re…you’re,” he stops. When he looks up, there is vulnerability in his eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Those are the last words that Loki had expected to hear. He is too stunned to respond. For the first time, he questions the Captain’s sanity. He has either lost his senses or his mind or both, to allow him to overlook Loki’s deformity.

The Captain’s brow furrows, his eyes searching. “Your wings are beautiful.”

“You cannot believe that,” Loki begins, his voice shaking despite his every attempt to control it.

“They are,” the Captain insists.

“I am grotesque,” Loki finally spits out, the words as bitter as venom. “These wings. This mockery. You think me beautiful? You are a fool.”

“Loki.”

Swaying as he stands, unsure if he’s shaking from fear or from anger, Loki wills his skin to changes – he is Jotun now – and feels the air turn colder. The jeans and t-shirt fade away as well, leaving him bare and exposed. He glares down at the Captain, defiant and daring him to continue his lie further.

“Oh,” the Captain says, eyes going wide. 

“This is my true skin, my true face. Do you think me beautiful now?” Loki snarls. 

The Captain stands, his every motion fluid and certain. He catches Loki in his arms; his grip settles on the joint of Loki’s wings and holds him fast. “Yes,” he says firmly, repeating the word again in a whisper. “Yes.”

At the touch, Loki’s anger begins to fade and the dark blue of his skin fades with it. He is too stunned to react when the Captain leans in and presses his lips gently, chastely, against Loki’s. The kiss sears through him as a bolt of lightning, igniting the dark corners of his soul. His hunger for touch, for something other than emptiness, wells up and pours over, leaving him powerless to hold it back. He bites at the Captain’s lips, sliding his hands into blond hair. The kiss deepens; he sucks the Captain’s tongue into his mouth.

It isn’t enough.

He is thoughtless with want, desperate with it. His fingers tug and pull at the Captain’s shoulders. He is anxious to feel and taste the Captain’s skin, to take in the pulse of his heartbeat and feel it racing.

“Loki,” the Captain chokes out when he pulls away to gasp for breath. “This is…this is too fast. Slow down, slow down.”

Loki pushes forward until the Captain bumps up against the lounge chair and his knees bend; he sits, allowing Loki to straddle him. Loki bites at his lips and throat; he needs the heat and touch of skin in a way that he cannot form into words. If he could speak, he would beg for it. The words crash together at the back of his tongue, sticking fast; leaving him to silently plead for release, for an instant that he would feel alive and whole again.

The Captain strips away his gloves and his hands settle on Loki’s hips; the warmth of his skin is like the press of a brand. His gaze is downward; he swallows audibly and then looks up, brow furrowed and eyes searching. “Loki.” 

“Is this not what you crave? I can feel the heat beneath your skin, the burning in your blood.” His own voice sounds sharp enough to cut like a blade, each word double-edged and raw. They come easily, more easily than words have come to him since Asgard. 

Unexpectedly, the look in the Captain’s eyes seems to focus and his jaw sets. There is a wildness in his expression that Loki has never seen before. “I’m not telling you no. I’m telling you…not yet.” His hands, fingers splayed wide, slide over and up Loki’s back, pulling him gently down against his chest. He makes light, slow strokes over Loki’s sides. “Bring your clothes back. You’ll get cold.”

Loki swallows down bitter laughter that the Captain is worried about his welfare. The jeans and t-shirt return; it does not stop the Captain from continuing his easy caresses. His hands move out along the ridges of Loki’s wings so gently that it is barely a touch. The sensation is different than the feel of hands against skin, but not unpleasant. There isn’t enough space on the small roof for him to stretch out his wings fully. Instead, he folds them forward as though to wrap them both in the safety of his feathers. With each breath, he settles deeper into the Captain’s embrace and feels his eyes closing.

He loses track of how long they stay curled together.

“Hey, Cap! You up there, Cap?” a familiar voice barely penetrates the layer of feathers.

In an instant, Loki pulls his wings back and shadows crawl up his body, wreathing about his limbs until he is nothing more than black against the rising sunlight.

“Next time,” the Captain says softly, his hands catch Loki’s hips and prevent him from pulling away completely. “We’ll find some place more private.”

Hawkeye’s face appears over the low wall a moment before he hoists himself up, frowning at what he sees. “You’re fucking him? I guess that explains a lot.”

The Captain sighs wearily but makes no effort to extract himself from his position beneath Loki.

Loki makes the first move and stands, moving away from the Captain. In two steps, he leaps to the top of the low wall and, in another, he is plummeting down from the height of Stark Tower. Wings catch the air. 

Next time, he thinks as he turns toward his nest.

Next time.

**

“So,” Hawkeye continues, swinging his legs over the wall. “Are you fucking him?”

“Not with you interrupting us, I’m not.” Steve tries to adjust his uniform discretely as he stands up, but Clint looks as though he’s about to burst into laughter. 

“Sorry, man. You should really get a sign or something. Hang a sock at least. If I’d known you were trying to get some.” Clint shrugs. “What does he look like under the disguise?”

Like a God, Steve answers silently. A god of ice and magic, with art etched into his very skin and the wings of an eagle. He doesn’t answer aloud, choosing instead to leap over the wall and drop down onto the balcony below. 

Clint has to take a different route down from the roof. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“He has green eyes,” Steve calls without looking back. He lets himself into the penthouse – Tony is in Malibu – and heads for the elevator. The door doesn’t quite manage to close before Clint reaches it.

“So, green eyes.” Clint stares up at the floor indicator, looking both innocent and pleased with himself. “That’s something you like?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Up until a few minutes ago, I figured you were into chicks.”

“I am.”

Clint eyes him sideways. “You’re bi?”

“Whatever you want to call something that is none of your business.”

“I’m pretty sure you banging the freak who put my arrow against Nat’s throat is my business.” Something in Clint’s voice changes, taking on an edge. 

Steve decides not to point out exactly how Loki had gotten hold of one of Clint’s arrows. “He wasn’t a threat to Natasha or to you; he was helping us.” He can’t get out of the elevator fast enough. He’s barely through the door, however, when he sees Natasha and Bruce in the living area. With a scowl, he starts for the kitchen.

“Hey, Steve,” Bruce says cautiously.

Grabbing a carton of orange juice from the fridge, Steve pours a glass and tries counting to ten before he turns around to face them. All three of them are watching him. He pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits down, drinking his orange juice and waiting for them to work up the nerve to ask the questions he knows are coming.

“Steve’s fucking the guy,” Clint says to Natasha.

Natasha’s reaction comes and goes in an instant, more irritation than anything else. “If I’d known that I should’ve been trying to set you up with men-”

Steve stops her. “First, who I have sex with is my business. Second, none of you are here because of my sex life. You’re here because you think I’m putting you all at risk.”

“Do you trust him?” she asks.

“Trust has to be earned,” Steve answers automatically. “I’m giving him a chance to earn mine. I think he just wants to be left alone.”

“He’s the one who got involved. Why?”

Steve doesn’t answer. There isn’t an answer to that. He’s not ready to admit to himself, let alone tell the others, that he’d expected to die the night Loki had intervened. He had been ready to accept death, to put down his shield forever, and he’d felt nothing but relief that it would finally be over. In the blink of an eye, those black wings had enfolded him and strong hands had gripped his arms. In that moment, Steve had believed in angels. After he’d killed Crossbones, Steve had decided that _Valkyrie_ was more appropriate than _angel_. But he’d realized that he wasn’t the only one who was lost and that had given him purpose again.

When the others couldn’t, Loki had seen that Steve was lost. 

Steve empties his glass before continuing, swallowing down his irritation with the juice. “Everyone deserves a chance.” He wants to say it’s a second chance, but he thinks this may be Loki’s third or fourth second chance. But it’s not his last chance; it can’t be.

He has to believe that.

“And you’d tell us if there was something about him that we should know?” She folds her arms and there is a definite challenge in her eyes.

“I will tell you if there is anything you need to know.” He sees her eyes narrow and knows that she’s weighing the subtle differences of meaning in their words. “If I thought…if I ever think…that he’s a threat to me or to any of you, I’ll take care of it. You have my word.”

The look in Natasha’s eyes softens just a bit. “Are you sure you’ll be able to? If it comes to that.”

Steve doesn’t know that answer either. After the battle of New York, he would’ve answered without hesitation, but not now. Now that he’s held Loki in his arms, felt him shaking and shivering and seen how desperately lonely and lost he is. He has to believe it won’t come to that.

“Steve,” Natasha begins.

“As able as I would be to take care of any one of you if you turned against us,” he answers, cutting her short. His words register with each of them and he can see the impact. 

Once they’ve exhausted their questions and voiced their distrust – can he really blame them? – he retreats to his room. He goes for his paints immediately, hunting for the right shades of blue and green and black. He doesn’t stop until every inch of flesh toned paint of the mural on the wall is covered over with blue.

This new Loki looks like midnight and snow and endless stars glittering in the black.

He should tell the others the truth, he thinks as the paint drips from the brush onto the protective cover spread over the carpet. But they hadn’t seen him, hadn’t seen that he was lost and drowning in a strange new place that isn’t where he belongs. They wouldn’t see Loki clearly either; they wouldn’t see that he was broken and trying to hide himself away from a world that was too bright and too vast. If they couldn’t see Loki, but Steve could, then he had to try. Just as Loki wrapped his wings around Steve and shielded him from Crossbone’s bullets, now it’s Steve’s turn.

With a heavy sigh, he sets the paints aside, his thoughts and emotions still churning. He’d all but told Loki that he wanted sex – _next time_ – and even he doesn’t know what that means. What if Loki thought, what if he thinks, what if he wants Steve to…

He closes his eyes. With the mural on the wall and the memory of Loki straddling him on the rooftop, it’s impossible not to imagine what he would look like, not to think about how it would feel.

He barely makes it into the shower, stripping away his clothes almost frantically. The water is barely warm when he steps under the spray, his hand already wrapped around his swollen cock. It’s still warming when he chokes down a groan – and the image of Loki with his wings spread wide, back arching – and bursts of semen paint the wall of the shower. 

Half of him wishes he knew where Loki lived, wishes he could leave the shower and make _next time_ happen as soon as possible. It feels inevitable, as though everything had been leading to this since the night Loki saved his life and maybe even earlier than that.

The other half of him wants to press up into the corner of the shower and stay there, terrified of what might happen when he leaves.

What if he’s making the wrong decision?

**

Loki sits at a bench in the coffee shop. His wings are veiled and unseen, though the people walking behind avoid them without realizing what they’re doing. He is nervous and he loathes it; loathes the bitterness at the pit of his stomach and the heat in his cheeks as he breathes. 

It is a testament to Thor’s commitment to living on Midgard that he is dressed in jeans and cotton t-shirt when he enters. His blond hair is bound in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Loki swallows hard when Thor starts in his direction, pretending to be fascinated with the magazine on the table in front of him. He doesn’t look up when Thor sits down, placing his cell phone gingerly on the table.

“I have already ordered,” Loki manages to spit out, gesturing to the cup of coffee near his hand. It comes out angrier than he feels.

“What would you suggest?” Thor asks. It sounds sincere. “Is this a place that you frequent?”

“No, of course not. I would not be so foolish as to allow you to know where I go from day to day.” The words are bitter and he almost regrets them. “Their mochas are passable,” he says in a fractured amends. He waits, studiously ignoring Thor when he gets up to order and returns some time later with a large mug that smells of chocolate and coffee.

“Are you well, brother?” Thor asks. “I thought…I feared you dead. I thought-”

“That you had left my body behind on a dark world? Unmourned and forgotten.” Loki hears the words sizzle in the air between them. “Would you deny me even Asgard’s funeral rites?”

“Loki,” Thor begins.

“It does not matter. I have no wish to be burned as a warrior of Asgard.”

Thor frowns at him for several minutes. “I am sorry that you were not there for Mother’s funeral.”

Loki has to close his eyes and take several deep breaths. “Have you come to gloat?”

“You have asked me that before. My answer has not changed.”

Eyes closed, Loki is almost tempted to drop the veil and reveal the truth of his fate. But he doesn’t. It would only cause a scene in the coffee shop and, despite his lie to Thor, he has no desire to ruin one of the few pleasures he has.

“Thank you,” Thor tries again. “For your message that I might see you. I wish only to see that you are well.”

Loki does not attempt to hide his disbelief. “So I have been told.” 

Another half smile. “You cannot return home, Loki. But you are not alone. I have told father that I wish to remain here, on Midgard.”

Loki looks at him for the first time, truly looks at him. He looks for deception and lies, but sees nothing other than earnestness in Thor’s face. His stomach churns. “Nothing has changed between us.” If there is disappointment in Thor’s eyes, he ignores it. 

“I wish only to know that my brother is alive and well. It brings me joy that you have chosen Midgard, as I have.”

“Liar,” Loki seethes. “You will forever be watching over your shoulder, waiting for me to hurt those around you. Your precious Avengers.”

Thor smiles over his coffee mug. “When you do, I will be here to stop you. Wherever you go, I will follow. If this is to be our Fate, I embrace it.” 

Paper crinkles as Loki’s grip tightens on the page of the magazine. “You have gotten what you came for. If there is nothing else.” Speaking so many words is exhausting him and he wants nothing more than to retreat to his nest, away from the burning afternoon sun.

“For now, it is enough to see you with my own eyes and know you are alive. I am satisfied.” Thor nods and continues to sip at his coffee, blithely unaware that he is unwanted and unwelcome.


End file.
